—Coordination Nation—

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JENNIE

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Over the next few days, Lisa and I work out a calendar of events leading up to the Christmas holidays. I'm a visual person so I color coordinate everything, and send it to her via email, but I also print a copy and have it blown up in color so we can post it in our respective shops. On top of that, I have daily social media posts prepared.

It's Thursday and tonight I have trivia night followed by Lisa's karaoke. The timing is great, since the quarterfinals for Best Bar are going to be announced next week, narrowing it down to the top twenty-five bars. I'm pretty excited about it, because now that we're working together, I don't have to worry about her starting early and stealing my business, although she stopped doing that a while ago. Plus we both have specials, and if they move from one bar to the other they get an additional coupon to use for a future event, which means more incentive to keep coming back.

I have a plan, but to orchestrate it I need to acquire some pertinent information about Lisa and free up a couple of hours this afternoon. I could get the information by asking her, but I kind of want it to be a fun surprise. It's nine in the morning, and Lisa usually isn't in until closer to ten, so I step out into the back alley. As I expected, the back door of The Manoban Cap is propped open with a wedge.

I peek inside but don't make my presence known. Instead I sneak down the hall. It's a bit of a feat, considering I'm wearing heels and have to go extra-high on my tippy toes so they don't click on the floor.

I pass the bar to get to Lisa's office. I scan the area, spotting Chan and one of the female servers close talking. They're too wrapped up in each other to notice me, so I make it past them undetected and slip into Lisa's office. It still hasn't been updated like the rest of the place, but it smells like her cologne. The same old dilapidated chair with a full-blown butt groove and picked-apart armrests sits in front of the ancient, pitted desk.

Originally, I found this office rather disgusting, but now, knowing what I do about this place it's sweet that Lisa hasn't changed a thing about it.

In the corner is a coat rack. I smile when I spot what I'm looking for—two plaid shirts hanging from the hooks. I nab one and check the size. It's an extra large, as I suspected, considering her broad shoulders. I bring the shirt to my nose and inhale. It holds the faint scent of laundry detergent, her cologne, and the pervasive odor of fried food that comes from working in a bar. I always smell like vanilla, butter, icing sugar, and sometimes coffee. I decide it's a good idea to take the shirt with me, because sizing can vary depending on the store, so it will be good to bring it along for comparison's sake.

I turn around, still holding the shirt up to my nose, humming contentedly. And slam right into a chest, which happens to be wrapped in exactly the same plaid shirt I'm huffing.

"Oh!" My gasp is muffled by the fabric.

I tip my head up and meet Lisa's inquisitive, amused gaze. "Are you sniffing my shirt?"

"I was checking to see if it was clean." It's only sort of a lie. Okay, it's a complete lie and I can feel my face turning red.

"Right. Okay." She nods once, eyes narrowed. "And where exactly are you going with my shirt?"

"I uh, I need to borrow it."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "For what?"

"It's supposed to be for a surprise, which you're currently ruining." And now I'm snappy to go along with my embarrassment.

She smiles, eyes moving over my face slowly, lingering on my lip, which I'm currently biting. "Am I going to get my shirt back?"

"Yes."

"In one piece?"

"Of course."

"Okay." She steps aside. "You can borrow it, then."

I smile brightly, trying to mask my mortification as I brush past her. "Great."

"Jennie."

"Hmm?" I pause and glance over my shoulder. She's right behind me.

She dips down, nose brushing the shell of my ear. She makes a low sound in the back of her throat, a purr, and murmurs, "I like the way you smell, too."

"Good to know." I leave feeling slightly less embarrassed and a whole lot turned on.

..

..

Two hours later I return from my shopping trip. I've been getting my dresses from the same store for years. I always hit their sample and sale rack—even before I had to scrimp and save every penny—so I get my dresses for around forty dollars each, often 25 percent of the full price. It means I have a closet full of dresses that I've amassed over the past decade and a half, and because they're very much fashioned after the fifties, they never really go out of style.

The lunch rush is in full swing, so I leave my purchases in my office and dive back into work. It isn't until after two that we finally have a lull in the constant stream of customers. Not that I'm going to complain.

I pop back over to The Manoban Cap to somewhat reluctantly return Lisa's borrowed shirt. I resist the urge to get in a couple more sniffs because I'll be able to sniff the real thing shortly.

I find Lisa sitting in the last seat at the end of the bar with her laptop propped open, reviewing spreadsheets. Like my place, hers is quieter this time of day—between lunch and dinner. Several tables are occupied with groups of college students studying over afternoon pints and local business people grabbing a bite while they work.

"Hey! Do you have a minute?" I have to fight with my body not to get all bouncy because I'm excited.

Lisa glances up from the laptop, a wry grin pulling up the corner of her mouth. "Sure. What's up?"

"Can we go to your office? I have something to show you." I'm holding a huge bag behind my back, most of which is hidden by my skirt.

"Why can't you show me here?" She tries to peek around me, where my hands are clasped behind my back.

"No peeking!" I shrug, trying to remain nonchalant. "And because I don't want anyone else to see yet."

She closes her laptop, tucks it under her arm and slides off the stool. She motions toward the hall leading to her office. "Ladies first."

I rolled my eyes, but practically bounce down the hall, giddy with excitement. I hang her shirt on the rack, set the bag on her executive chair and spin to face her. She's standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed over her chest, expression halfway between curious and amused.

I pull her inside and close the door, trapping us together in the small, crowded room that smells like her, paper, and more faintly of food.

I pull the garment bag out of the shopping bag and lay it over the back of the chair. "So I had this idea." I turn away from her, unzip the garment bag and pull out the dress I picked out for tonight's event.

"And you need my opinion on a dress?" She seems confused.

I give her a look. "No, silly. I don't need your opinion. Although you're welcome to give it if you'd like." I pull out the plaid shirt that matches the color scheme of the dress—blue with yellow neon accents, also on sale—spin around to face her and hold them both up. "Ta-da!"

Lisa's eyes shift back and forth between the shirt—in her size—and the dress. "I don't get it."

I roll my eyes. "You're such a dude. Look at the colors."

"What about them?"

"They match."

She blinks.

Obviously she requires more of an explanation aside from the visual, which I thought made it pretty clear. "It's for when we do combined events, so we match." I motion between us.

"So we match?" she repeats.

I expected her to be more excited about this, which is maybe naïve of me. She's a girl who lives in jeans and the same kind of plaid shirt every day of the week.

It's possible it's her forever uniform and she even wears it when she's at home. Or sweats, which I've only ever seen her in a couple of times. I lose a little of my zeal at her lack of reaction. "Or maybe not. Are the colors too much? It was just a thought. I can return the shirts."

"You got me more than one?" She moves into my personal space and peeks inside the garment bag. It's stuffed pretty full with my dresses and the shirts I'm now probably going to have to return.

"It's not a big deal. I thought it might be fun, but it's okay if that's not something you're interested in. I should've talked to you about it first." I try to brush her hand aside so I can tuck the shirt and dress back in the bag. I'm so embarrassed right now, and deflated to be quite honest.

She covers my hand with hers. "I think it's a great idea, Jennie."

"You're just saying that," I mutter.

"No, I'm not. I honestly think it's a good idea. An amazing one. I just didn't get it at first, but it totally makes sense for us to match when we're doing these shared events and it was really thoughtful of you to go out and get all this stuff as a surprise."

"You're sure you think it's a good idea?" I can't tell if she's just trying to save my bruised ego or what.

"I swear, I think it's fantastic." She gives me the Boy Scout salute. "It sure isn't anything I would've thought of."

"Really?"

"Really." She nods.

"Great!" I beam up at her and get lost in her smile. Our eyes lock and hold for several long seconds, warmth blossoming in my stomach and radiating through my limbs. I give my head a shake. "Let me show you the rest of them, and you can try them on and make sure they fit properly. I used the shirt I borrowed to cross reference the size because sometimes they don't all fit the same. There's this great store a few blocks away and they have a crazy selection of plaid shirts. I stumbled across it online and thought it would work out really well." I'm excited-rambling now, but with Lisa on board I can see in my mind exactly how well this will work, and Rosé is going to love it. "If you're game for it we can take some fun pictures to post on social media being all matchy-matchy. I think it'll look great and really help unify the collaborated event."

"I like the sound of all of this."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I think it's super smart."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." Lisa starts unbuttoning her shirt.

"Why do you always wear plaid?"

"The same reason you always wear dresses, I guess."

"You're obsessed with Leave It to Beaver–style shows?"

She laughs, but her expression sobers quickly and she focuses on the task of flicking open buttons. "After my parents passed, I had to go through the house and clean it out. My dad had all of these plaid shirts. It was his thing, I guess. I couldn't really conceive of getting rid of them, so I started wearing them and never really stopped."

"So it became your thing, too." Another way to stay connected to a person she loved and lost.

"Exactly." She gives me a wry smile as she shrugs out of her button-down. She's wearing a white undershirt beneath her usual red and black plaid. The fabric is thin and stretched tight, conforming to the contours and planes of muscle. "It wasn't long after that I started on the body art."

I allow my gaze to soak in the designs decorating her exposed arms. Based on the slightly sheer quality of the shirt, I discover that Lisa's artwork extends to her chest. Muted colors seep through and I wonder if I'll ever have the chance to see all of it. "How many tattoos do you have?" I finally manage to drag my eyes back up to her face—it's not a hardship.

"Quite a few."

Maybe how many is the wrong question. "Are they just from the waist up?"

A slight grin appears. "Most of them, yeah."

She reaches around me and grabs the first shirt with the navy and neon yellow plaid print and shrugs into it. It fits perfectly.

"I can throw that one in the wash right now so it's ready for the event tonight."

"You don't need to do that. I can wear it as is."

"I don't mind, and it'll feel nicer if it's been washed and not so stiff. I'll add which shirt to wear and when on the calendar to make it easy for you."

"I don't want to put that all on you. We could do it together."

"Sure. Okay. We can check out calendars later and figure out what works best?"

"That'd be great."

"Hey, Lisa, a couple of the girls need you to sign off so they can cash out." Chan peeks his head in the office. "Oh, hey, Jennie, I didn't realize you were here." He gives me a once-over. "You look pretty, but then you always do."

"Save the flirting for someone you actually have a chance with, Chan," Lisa says tonelessly.

I chuckle. "I should go. I'll see you both later tonight."

"Looking forward to it, Jennie," Chan calls after me as I walk down the hall toward the back exit carrying the garment bag of dresses and shirts.

I wave at them both over my shoulder and head back to BB in a buoyant mood.

..

..

My matchy-matchy plan turns out to be a great one. We look adorable in our coordinated outfits, and they make for fantastic social media posts. The first few collaborative events go over really well. Both of our businesses see an increase in revenue, and the more we work together the busier we get. Meanwhile, we're holding our own in the Best Bar competition, although Lisa's a few spots above me.

We each end up having to hire another bartender so we can keep up with the new demands on our promotional nights. As the holidays approach, I suggest that we collaborate on a New Year's event and Lisa agrees.

It's much more involved and means planning sessions take place outside of business hours, not in our respective bars where interruptions abound. Which is how I end up at Lisa's apartment on a Sunday night after hours. Well, my hours, not her. She left work early so I wouldn't end up completely bleary-eyed in the morning.

"Do you mind if I change real quick so I don't smell like stale beer and wing sauce?" Lisa asks once we're in her apartment.

"Not at all."

"Great. Just make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a minute." She motions to the living room with the oversized dark leather furniture. The whole place is rustic with warm tones, like an open-concept cottage transplanted into an apartment building in the city. The floors are dark, rough-hewn hardwood and although I'm wearing tights, I shiver as the cold hits the soles of my feet and travels up my spine.

I cross over to the pictures hung on the walls, taking them in with new eyes now that I know more about the history of the bar and Lisa's relationship with her grandfather. It makes me sad that she lost her parents at such a young age.

As whacked out as my family may be, I'm lucky to have them. They love me in their own weird way. There are a few more photos of an older Lisa with her grandfather and grandmother. I don't know if it's just me, but her smile doesn't seem quite as bright. Maybe they were taken not long after she lost her parents.

Lisa returns a minute later wearing a pair of loose jogging pants and a T-shirt. She's changed from contacts to glasses. Her hair is less than perfect, as if she rushed to change. I can't complain about the view.

She holds up a pair of wool socks—the kind with a cream and red band at the top. "The floors are kind of cold in here. I thought you might want these."

She meets me halfway across the living room to pass them over. Without my heels on she's quite a bit taller than me, so I have to tip my head back to look up at her. "Thanks, my feet are perpetually cold. I'm pretty much in slippers between October and April."

"Or heels." She inclines her head toward the kitchen. "Come have a seat and I'll make us a drink before we get down to business."

I hoist myself up on a stool and pull on the warm wool socks. They're so big they almost reach my knees. Lisa roots around in the fridge and returns with four bottles, which she lines up in front of me. "Do you like craft beer?"

"Depends on the beer, but I'm always game to try something new." I pick up the one closest to me and read the handwritten label. "Rhubarb ale?"

"I have a few new flavors I've been trying out and I need a guinea pig. I can pour us each a flight and you can sample a few?"

"Sounds good. Can I help with anything?"

"Nope. I've got it covered."

While Lisa pours us beers, I take the opportunity to inspect her body art more closely. From my vantage point, I have a great view of the woman's portrait surrounded by blooming roses. I reach out and trace the contour of her face.

Lisa's in the middle of pouring a beer, and I startle her with the unexpected contact, so some of it sloshes onto the counter.

"Oh! Sorry. That's my fault; let me clean that up." I hop off the stool and grab the closest rag.

"That's okay, I got it." Her fingers wrap around my wrist and that warm, buttery feeling coasts through my veins. I'm sure my face is red. You'd think with the amount of time we spend together that I'd have gotten over my fascination with her art and the way her touch seems to affect me, but if anything it's gotten worse, not better. Or maybe more intense is a more accurate way to explain it? I don't know, but I'm definitely attracted to her.

Acting on that would not be a good idea. Too complicated. What if she's bad in bed and we still have to cohost all of these events? Or worse, what if she thinks I'm bad in bed? And why am I suddenly thinking about sleeping with her just because she's making innocuous physical contact?

"Jennie, I got it. No big deal," she repeats, and I realize I've been staring at her hand wrapped around my wrist, lost in my own head. I hope it wasn't for long.

"Really, I startled you. I can clean it up."

"Jennie." This time her tone makes me look up.

"Just let me help," I press.

"You're not holding a dishrag." She's sort of smirking, but her cheeks are pink.

"What?" I glance back down to the cloth in my hand.

"Just give it to me, please." She tries to pry it from my fingers, but her sudden desperation to take it away makes me want to hold on tighter.

"Just let go," I tell her.

"No. You let go."

Are we really having a kindergarten-style fight over this? She spins me around so my back is against her chest and bars her free arm around me, but I'm wiggly and for once it's her who seems to be embarrassed. And suddenly I realize why.

Instead of a dishcloth, I'm holding a pair of boxer briefs with a cartoon Santa holding a beer on them. "Oh my God! Why the hell do you have boxers on your counter! Are they dirty?"

Lisa lets me go and raises both hands in the air. "They're fresh from the laundry, I swear. They fell out of my laundry basket and I found them on the floor and tossed them on the counter this morning on the way out the door. I know I live alone and I'm a girl with dude thing, but I don't normally keep my underwear on the counter."

This time it's Lisa who's red-faced instead of the other way around. I decide I should savor the experience since I have no idea when it's going to happen again. I hold them up and frown at the way the peen pouch holds its shape. "What's going on here?" I poke at the pouch.

She makes a noise that sounds half like she's choking and also a groan. "Don't do that."

"Why not? You said they're clean. Are you lying?"

"I'm not lying," she croaks.

I know she's telling the truth because the fresh smell of her laundry detergent prevails as I wave around her festive underwear. This is more fun than it should be. I peek inside. These aren't like regular underwear at all. "Are these for sports or something? Like they have a built-in jockstrap?"

She tries to grab them from me but I spin out of reach, putting the island between us as a barrier. She pokes at her cheek with her tongue. "They offer support." She uses her hand to demonstrate, but in the air, not by cupping her actual junk.

"Like a bra for your balls?" I make the same cupping motion in front of my chest. Her underwear dangle from my pinkie.

"Yeah, sort of like a bra for my balls."

"So it lifts and separates?"

"Same basic principle." She closes her eyes for a few seconds, exhaling a long slow breath before she opens them again. "Can we stop talking about this now?"

"You're the one who leaves underwear on your counter. I don't think it's unreasonable for me to be curious about them."

She swallows thickly. "Is your curiosity sated?"

"Partially. I might have more questions later. Why? Is this conversation making you uncomfortable?"

She blinks a couple of times before her eyebrows rise. "We're talking about my balls and your tits, Jennie."

"And?" I play dumb, because this whole conversation is making me think about cupping her junk, so I have to assume it's making her think about the same thing and possibly her acting as a human bra for my boobs.

"Well, Jennie, you're fondling my underwear, we're discussing cupping balls, you're drawing attention to your chest. So as you're talking I'm imagining every single one of those things. And I'm wearing gray sweatpants and I'm commando now."

"Seriously?" I push up on my tiptoes and try to get a look at her crotch, which is a silly thing to do because it's not like I can see if she's commando through her sweats.

She points a finger at me. "You stay right where you are."

"Why?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

I shrug and give her a look that tells her I do, in fact, need to ask.

She plants her fists on the counter and huffs a laugh. She keeps her head bowed but lifts her gaze. "This conversation is stimulating."

"Oh." I glance down and back up a few times. "Oh! Are you aroused?"

All she does is glare at me.

"I see." I nod primly and place her boxer briefs on the counter. I carefully smooth them out, bite my lip, and push them in her direction. "You know." I wrinkle my nose. "I think I'm just going to excuse myself to the bathroom for a minute. It's down the hall, isn't it?" I motion in the direction she went when she changed into gray sweats.

"First door on the left," she grinds out.

"I'll give you a minute to…calm down, then," I whisper. Yes, it's sultry and on purpose.

"Much appreciated, Jennie."

I wait until I'm halfway down the hall before I allow myself to smile. It's nice to know I'm not the only one affected.

When I return from the bathroom—I take an extra long time and wish I'd thought to bring my purse along so I can fix my makeup—the underwear is no longer sitting on the counter, and Lisa has relocated to the couch.

In addition to the flights of beer, she's set out bowls of chips, nuts, and popcorn. I grab my laptop and clipboard and join her.

I leave a cushion of space between us and adjust my dress so I can tuck my legs under all the fabric. If I'd been thinking, I would have lost the crinoline. It makes the skirt extra poofy—and hides my thighs and butt, which Jisoo and Jihyo had a habit of smacking anytime I wore jeans because, unlike them, I actually have a butt. Crinolines, while great for keeping the booty under wraps, are not necessarily the most comfortable thing to sit around in.

I battle the fabric down and use a throw pillow—there's only one and it looks like it might have been cross-stitched by a grandmother—to keep it from poofing up again.

"I'd offer you a pair of jogging pants, but I think you'd swim in mine."

"It's fine. I'm used to it."

"You don't look all that comfortable."

She gives me the raised eyebrow and I stare at her for a few more seconds before I finally give in, stand up, pull the crinoline down and step out of it. It holds its shape for a few long seconds, resembling a pretty fabric volcano before it sinks into a puddle on the floor.

"Happy now?" I sit back down and tuck my legs back under the skirt again.

"As long as you're happy and comfortable, I'm happy and comfortable. You wear that thing every day?"

"It's comfy, for the most part."

"I'll take your word for it." She motions to the spread. "Help yourself, but let me give you a rundown of the beers and what goes best with which snack." She describes each craft brew: pumpkin, orange, rhubarb, and a hopped mango ale and tells me which snack to pair it with. I take a sip after each description, then follow it with a nibble of the accompanying snack so I can experience the way the flavors complement one another. "Where did these beers come from? They're all delicious." I go back to the rhubarb ale, because I favor the hint of sweetness and the tart, gentle tang that follows the initial bitterness of the hops.

"I made them."

"What? When would you have time for that?"

"Gramps let me set up a brew in his garage. It's just small batches, but I think it'll be enough to have some decent options for New Year's. What do you think?"

I set my beer down and clap my hands excitedly, and then grab hers. "Oh my God! What about a craft beer and champagne theme! We can have specialty cupcakes based on the beer flavors and champagne. You can host the dinner and I'll handle dessert. Do you think we can apply to have a gated outdoor space so people can go back and forth between our places as long as there's security? Or is that too much? It might be too much."

"I think it's a great idea, and it's sort of exactly what I was already thinking."

"I'll shut down BB at ten and move the party over to The Manoban Cap. We can have a cupcake table and appetizers and all the delicious craft beer. This is going to be fantastic."

..

..

We spend the next hour sipping beers, eating snacks, and planning our New Year's co-celebration. I start to get tired—beer hits me a lot faster than vodka for some reason—and when Lisa excuses herself to the bathroom, I stretch out and close my eyes for a few seconds.

I blink and try to roll over, but my face hits…a wall? No wait. Walls aren't soft, and they aren't made of…leather? I blink a couple of times, but close my eyes right away because the morning sun is streaming through the windows, blinding me. It's enough time for me to come to the conclusion that I'm not in my own apartment.

Panic takes over for a few disorienting seconds until the familiar smell of Lisa's cologne registers. I blink again, still trying to adjust to the light beyond my eyelids.

I can't believe I fell asleep. Well, that's not true; I've been burning the candle at both ends, working long hours, basically seven days a week, since the beginning of the summer. That I passed out on Lisa's couch isn't much of a surprise. That she didn't wake me up and send me home sort of is.

Or maybe she tried and failed. That would be both embarrassing and not entirely impossible given the above facts.

I note the soft pillow tucked under my head—not the cross-stitched one I was hugging last night. I'm also covered in a blanket that smells like Lisa. On the table beside me is a glass of water.

The food and drinks from last night have been cleared away and sit on the counter across the room. I must have passed out so hard. I check the time. It's barely after seven, but I have to stop at home to change at the very least and manage my makeup situation, so there's no way I'm going to make it in before eight thirty. I'm glad I had the foresight to prepare most of the cupcakes for today last night, otherwise we'd be in real short supply this morning.

I throw off the covers, consider leaving them in a heap, but decide that's super rude, so I fold everything—half-assed folding, but still—and look around the floor for my crinoline.

I spot all my stuff—purse, laptop, clipboard, and crinoline—on the club chair across from the couch. I can sincerely appreciate Lisa's tidiness.

Once my mess is straightened up, I find a piece of paper, scribble an apology and a thank you, and gather up my things, shoving the crinoline in my purse because carrying it is awkward.

Of course my attempt to make a stealthy exit is thwarted when my purse knocks into a wooden sculpture of a beaver and it clatters to the floor. I carefully put it back, glad it wasn't glass, and tiptoe to the door, careful not to bang into anything else. I realize I'm still wearing Lisa's socks, so I have to take those off before I can slip my feet into my shoes. This also requires me to set down all the things I'm carrying because the socks are clinging to my tights.

"Morning." The gravelly voice gives me pause.

"I'm so sorry I fell asleep on you." I turn to give her an apologetic smile to go with the verbal one, but I'm pretty sure all I'm capable of is drooling. "Oh." I'm excessively breathy as I murmur, "Good morning to me."

Lisa is standing about ten feet away, wearing the same gray sweats as last night. Except she's gloriously shirtless, all her artwork and her lovely, defined muscles on display. There's a lot of both to appreciate.

I'd like to say I make an attempt to conceal my gawking, but I don't. I scan her torso, drinking in the ink that covers the left side of her chest and merges with the ink running down her arm. I also admire the delicious V of muscle that disappears under the waistband of her sweats.

Eventually I make it up to her face. Even the smirk she's wearing is adorably delicious. A five o'clock shadow covers her jaw and sleep lines cut across her face. Her hair sticks up all over the place. This is a sight I wouldn't mind waking up to more often.

"Jennie?" Her right brow arches.

Damn it, she's asked me a question and I've been too busy thinking about how it's too bad she doesn't sleep completely naked to be bothered to pay attention. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I knocked a beaver over." I thumb over my shoulder. "But I didn't break it or anything. And I'm sorry I fell asleep on you. I know I'm impossible to wake up."

She runs a hand through her hair, making more of it stand on end. "I would've moved you to the spare bedroom, but you were out like a light and I figured you probably needed the rest. I hope you slept okay."

"Like the dead, actually. I should go, though." God, this is awkward.

Lisa gives me a lopsided grin. "You don't want to stay and make me breakfast?"

It's my turn for my eyebrows to climb my forehead. "I need to shower and change before work." Plus Rosé said she was going to stop by this morning with a few things she thought might be helpful for the New Year's celebration and she seemed particularly excited. No matter how many times I tell her I can manage, she always makes herself available on the nights with special events.

"It's only just seven, and I'm kidding about you making me breakfast, Jennie. But I could make you breakfast."

"Oh, you don't need to do that. I've already overstayed my welcome."

"If that was true, I would've stayed in bed and let you leave. You can let Callie open up, can't you? I won't make you late. I can whip up a mean breakfast sandwich." Her tone is light and playful, but her expression is earnest.

Warmth courses through my veins and pools in my stomach. "I guess I could stay for breakfast. I need to call Callie, though."

"Great. I'll put on a pot of coffee while you do that." Her warm fingertips graze the back of my hand as she passes. I don't think it's an accident.

After I call Callie, who's happy to open up for me, I message Rosé about coming in a little late this morning.

Her response is immediate:

Rosé: Are you sick?

Jennie: No. Late night planning with Lisa. I'll explain when I see you.

Rosé: Please tell me she has a big and you rode it all night long.

I ignore her text.

Jennie: See you in a couple hours.

"Everything okay? You still good to stay for breakfast?" Lisa asks.

"Yup. All set. What can I do to help?"

She hands me a mug. "You can get this ready to be filled with coffee. I'm going to throw on a shirt, and then I'll start breakfast."

"Okay." I can't remember the last time someone made me breakfast. Especially not after an accidental sleepover, which did not include sex. I think I kind of like it.

She pads across the living room and I get a look at her back, also covered in art. She's a living, breathing canvas. One I'd love to explore every inch of. And not just with my eyes.

..

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